


Chicken Run

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Chickens, Children, Cute, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Good With Children, Humour, Jaskier saves the day, M/M, Pining, Rated Teen for swears, Silly, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26231116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Jaskier was so lost in thought that he didn’t see the chicken till there was a shout from behind him.“Mister! Grab that chicken!”While Geralt is away on a hunt, Jaskier helps in a hunt of his own: tracking down a child's lost chickens. When Geralt finally returns to find Jaskier rolling in the dirt with a chicken held to his chest, he soon learns that if there's anything children like more than catching chickens, it's hearing gruesome stories about the wraith he just dispatched.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 44
Kudos: 325





	Chicken Run

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you [follow me on tumblr](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/), you might know that after posting [_A Close Shave_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26173042) I was very amused that none of y'all called me out on using the title of a Wallace and Gromit film for my ridiculously kinky fic. And then I decided, hey, in for a penny, and challenged myself to write a fic called "Chicken Run", to continue this baffling tradition. Enjoy!

Jaskier wandered, without plan or direction, through the village. Geralt had swanned off half an hour ago on a hunt, telling Jaskier in no uncertain terms to stay where he was. Jaskier had protested, of course, but Geralt wasn’t having it today, and so he’d found himself left in the tiny little village with nothing much to do but wait. 

On their way in they’d passed a lovely little stream, and Jaskier had vague intentions to head in that direction to see if the beauty of nature would inspire him. He wondered how Geralt was getting on with the hunt. The notice they’d found had mentioned a terrible spectre haunting the hill above the village, and Jaskier had found the whole thing dreadfully exciting - but Geralt had set his jaw and demanded he stay behind. 

Jaskier kicked a rock down the dusty road. If Geralt went and got himself grievously injured with no one there to help, it would be his own damn fault. He tried not to linger too much on that thought - of Geralt being mortally wounded while Jaskier gallivanted about the village. 

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t see the chicken till there was a shout from behind him. 

“Mister! Grab that chicken!” 

He froze, one foot in the air, and looked down. A filthy chicken looked back up at him with glassy eyes. 

“Grab it!” 

Acting instinctively, he did as the voice commanded, and made to grab at the chicken. Not being well-versed in chicken rearing, he assumed he could just catch the bird and return it to the owner. He was quite incorrect. 

As soon as he’d grabbed it, it began to squawk and flap at him, its wings beating against his hands in a whirlwind. Jaskier gave a little startled shout, holding the bird at arm’s length as it desperately tried to escape his grip. 

“You gotta hold its wings down!” A tiny girl appeared at Jaskier’s side, out of breath. “You gotta hold it on either side or it’ll get away, don’t you know nothin’ about chickens?” 

Jaskier had to admit that he didn’t. “Uh…” 

“Give it here.” 

Jaskier proffered the bird to the girl, who took it in an expert grip, pinning down its wings. The chicken immediately calmed. 

“Gosh, well done,” said Jaskier, rubbing his hands on his doublet, trying to wipe away some of the chicken-y dirt. 

The little girl frowned at him with the air of all small children who know more than the so-called adults. Now Jaskier wasn’t distracted by the terrible bird, he could get a better look at her. She was about eight years old, with a mucky face and dark hair that was falling out of the plaits that someone had so carefully tied. Her eyes were red and puffy. She’d clearly been crying. 

Jaskier felt a sudden pang of protectiveness, and he bent down to look her in the eyes. “Are you okay?” He asked, gently. 

The girl sniffed. 

“It’s alright,” he said. “Maybe I can help? Do we need to find your parents?” 

She shook her head. “I lost the chickens.” 

“Come again?” 

It all came out in a rush. “Ma and Pa went off to town and they told me to feed the chickens and I _did_ but the gate was open and I didn’t realise and then they all got out and now they’re gone! Ma’s gonna be so cross with me, she is, and I’ll get the rod, because we needed the eggs for sellin’ and the meat in the winter and, and--” 

She burst into tears. 

Jaskier’s already delicate heart shattered into tiny pieces. 

“Oh, no, darling, it’s okay…” he put a hand on her shoulder as she sobbed, her whole body shaking, “we’ll get them back, alright?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes, we will. Let’s get this one home and then we’ll find the others.” 

She sniffed, noisily. He was about to offer her a handkerchief when she pulled up the little apron tied around her waist and noisily blew her nose on the fabric. Jaskier winced. _Children_. Repressing a shudder, he offered his hand to her anyway. The little girl hoisted the chicken onto one hip, pinning it down beneath her arm, then took his hand. He tried not to think about how sticky it was. 

As she led him back towards her home on the edge of the village, she began to brighten up, chatting as they walked. Her name was Gerta and she lived with her Mama and Papa and a big brother called Davey. There was another brother - Bart - who’d moved to Novigrad with the blacksmith’s daughter last year, which was apparently a great scandal, although Gerta admitted that she wasn’t sure why as the blacksmith’s daughter was very nice and always gave her ribbons. 

Jaskier nodded along, listening to what appeared to be the whole history of the village. She’d just started on a tale about old Bert and his poorly leg, when she stopped mid sentence. 

“...said they’d have to cut it off, an’ I asked if I could wach an’ they said no, which is _stupid_ , an’ you could hear ‘im yelli-- _there!”_

She froze, pointing. In front of them, standing right in the middle of the track, was another chicken. It stared at Jaskier unblinkly. Jaskier didn’t trust chickens. 

For a long while, no one did anything. Then the chicken spun around with a squawk, and ran off. Jaskier dropped Gerta’s hand and took off in pursuit, caught up with the bird with ease, and scooped it up. This time he was ready for the flapping, and while he hadn’t quite managed to secure the wings he at least was prepared, holding the bird out so it couldn’t flap at him. 

“Uh,” he said, over the bird’s wriggling, “how many chickens did you say you had, Gerta?” 

Gerta was peering at something on her finger. She wiped it on her dress. “Twelve.” 

Jaskier sighed. “Well, then. Two down, I suppose.” 

Thankfully, Gerta’s house wasn’t much further. It was a tiny cottage, right on the edge of the village with a low-walled garden surrounding it. In the corner of the garden was the empty chicken coop. They carefully tossed the chickens over the wall, making sure the gate was securely shut. The chickens took a moment to realise where they were, then began pecking at the grass, making content _bawk_ noises. Jaskier leant on the wall. 

“So,” he said, “where might we find the rest?” 

The next two hours were spent wildly chasing chickens around the village. Jaskier wished he had Geralt’s super-human tracking abilities: hunting down the rogue birds would have been far easier with the witcher’s keen sense of smell and hearing. As it was, they had to rely on word of mouth, asking passing villagers if they’d seen any wandering chickens. 

It was slow going, as with every two chickens apprehended they were forced to return to the cottage, dropping them off in the garden. But the flock of captured escapees was growing steadily larger, and Jaskier would be the first to admit that he hadn’t had anything better to do with his morning. They chatted as they walked, and Gerta seemed pleased to have someone to talk to. 

Jaskier asked her if the chickens had names, and she looked at him like he was mad. 

“Of course they don’t ‘ave names,” she said, her little face twisted into a frown, “why’d we go an’ do that? We’re gonna eat ‘em come the frosts.” 

“Right, yes. Of course.” Jaskier peered down at the chicken in his arms, sadly. It pecked him. He swore under his breath. _Bastard things_. 

They dropped off their latest rescues and headed back out. Someone had mentioned seeing a couple of loose chickens near the woods, and that was where they were headed. 

“You know,” said Gerta, “I ‘aven’t seen you round ‘ere before. Where're you from?” 

Jaskier smiled. “Lettenhove, once,” he said, “but now I travel around, place to place.” 

“You don’t live anywhere? Don’t you have a… a house an’ a fireplace an’ a bed?” 

“I don’t.” 

She looked aghast. “ _Everyone’s_ got a bed,” she said. 

“Not me,” he shrugged, “Sometimes I sleep in an inn, if I’m lucky. Sometimes outside. It’s not too bad if it isn’t raining.” 

“Gosh. What if it _is_ rainin’? It’s always rainin’ round ‘ere.” 

“Well, yes, you’re quite right. If it’s raining then I _still_ sleep on the ground, although it’s rather less comfortable.” 

She frowned. “Don’t you want a house? It must be really cold on a night.” She was thinking, again. “You can come live with us. You can have Bart’s old bed.” 

“Oh, that’s sweet,” Jaskier laughed, “but I _choose_ to live this way.” 

“Really?” She sniffed. “Why?” 

“Ah, well…” Jaskier’s mind was full of white hair and strong arms, leather and campfires and blood. Yellow eyes flashing across a room, across a clearing, across the tiny distance of a shared bed. “...Adventure,” he settled on. “Stories.” 

“What kinda stories?” She glanced sideways at him, “Not stories about princesses and kissin’, right?” 

He laughed at her disgust. “All sorts of stories,” he said, “Although often ones with lots of blood in.” 

She clearly approved of that. “I like them best,” she said. “But aren’t you lonely? I get lonely when Davey’s not around.” 

“I’ve a travelling companion,” he said, wondering if the little girl would be frightened by the idea of a witcher, “I’m very rarely lonely.” 

“Does he like stories too?” 

“Hmm… sometimes. He’s often the one _making_ the stories. I just write them down.” 

They lapsed into companionable silence again, until they reached the edge of the woods. Jaskier peered around, looking for a sign of the missing birds. 

“There!” 

Stuck in the bark at the foot of a tree was a cluster of feathers. He approached cautiously, bending down to look through the branches. 

“Can you see ‘em?” Asked Gerta, looking over his shoulder. 

“Ahh…” There was a fluttering noise. “Yes! They’re in there! Two of them. Ugh, I’m too big to get through the trees…” 

Gerta pushed past him. Thanks to her diminutive size, she was able to squeeze under the branches and flush the chickens out. The first Jaskier managed to catch, but the second took advantage of his full hands and dashed right past him. Thinking quickly, he pulled off his doublet and chucked it at the bird like a fisherman throwing a net. 

The chicken screeched, the sound muffled by the fabric, and Gerta came hurtling out through the trees, laughing. She scooped the chicken - doublet and all - into her hands, and Jaskier started to mentally calculate the cost of getting chicken shit cleaned out of the expensive leather. At least the bird was unharmed, he thought, as they headed back towards the cottage. 

As they placed the chickens on the other side of the wall, Jaskier took a moment to count them. 

“That’s eleven,” he said, “We’re nearly there. One left!” 

Gerta sat on the wall, swinging her legs. “D’you think we’ll find it?” 

“We found all the others, didn’t we? We’re chicken hunting experts! They’ll sing songs about us for years to come: the Ballad of Jaskier and Gerta, Chicken Hunters!” 

“Gerta and Jaskier,” she said. 

“Okay, the Ballad of Gerta and Jaskier,” he laughed, “have it your way. They _are_ your chickens, after all.” 

It was just past midday, and the sun was beating down on them. It was warm - probably one of the last warm days before autumn set in. Jaskier rolled up his shirt sleeves. 

“Come on, then,” he said. “I’ll be needing a drink after all this.” 

The last chicken was proving difficult to find. They’d walked the length of the village and its surrounding fields at least three times now, and the mysterious twelfth chicken had yet to appear. Jaskier was a little concerned that it had been stolen by another villager, or attacked and killed by a dog. He hoped that the loss of a chicken wouldn’t affect the little family too much. He wondered how much a single chicken cost, and if there was enough coin in his purse to cover it, if he needed to. 

They’d made their way back to the far end of the village and were still coming up empty handed. This was where Geralt had left him several hours ago, before setting off on the hunt. Did terrible spectres eat chickens? Jaskier wasn’t sure. 

He was lost in thought when there was a tug on his hand. 

“Look!” Gerta whispered, “by that fence!” 

He looked up. There it was - the final chicken. It looked bigger than the others, and its feathers more ruffled, all at angles. It pawed at the ground with its feet, digging for bugs. 

“Shhh,” warned Jaskier, “We’ll have to sneak up on it…” 

They crept forwards. Had Jaskier been an outsider watching their performance, he would have laughed, but now the final chicken was right in front of him, it felt deadly serious. 

“I’ll grab it on three,” he whispered, “right?” 

“Right.” 

“Ready?” 

“Yeah.” 

“One… Two…” 

_CRACK_. 

They both looked down. He’d trodden on a dry stick, snapping it in two. 

The enormous chicken looked up, eyes sparkling, and ran. 

_Shit_. “No!” 

Jaskier gave chase, kicking the stick out of the way and dashing towards the bird. It led him on a chase around the fence, flapping madly. It was devilishly fast, and Jaskier was quickly running out of breath. It dodged around a post, Jaskier close behind, then back onto the track, straight into the deep furrows made by a passing cart. Its clawed feet struggled on the uneven surface and, taking the opportunity, Jaskier hurled himself forwards, grabbing the chicken and falling to the ground, the chicken protesting loudly in his arms. 

“There!” Said Jaskier, triumphant, “Got the little bastard. That’s all of them, right Gerta?” He looked around. “Gerta?” 

Gerta was distracted. “Cor…” 

Jaskier looked up from his position on the floor.. Geralt was standing over him, a cut on one cheek and a dripping bag held loosely at his side. He said nothing - just raised his eyebrows at Jaskier, sprawled on the ground. 

Gerta, apparently no longer caring about the final chicken, stared up at Geralt with huge eyes. 

“Issa _witch feller_ ,” she breathed, in awe. 

“Witch _er_ ,” corrected Jaskier, awkwardly clambering to his feet without dropping the chicken, “How did it go?” 

Geralt shrugged. “Fine,” he said, dismissively. “Need to drop this off with the alderman.” 

He gestured to the bag, still dripping, and Gerta’s eyes got even wider, if that was even possible. 

“Wha’s in there?” She whispered. 

Geralt peered down at her. “Bones.” 

By the look on her face, Geralt could have said ‘treasure’, or ‘three wishes’, or ‘your wildest dreams’. 

“Whatcha got bones for?” She asked, edging closer. 

Jaskier stepped forward. “This is Geralt,” he said, “My… travelling companion that I was telling you about, remember? He’s just come back from a contract,” he added, noting Geralt’s unsure expression. “For the monster on the hill.” 

“The ghost lady?” Gerta squeaked, her hands flying to her mouth, “She’s evil, I heard our ma say! She’s killed three of the farmer’s lads and _sixteen_ sheep!” 

“Three lads?” Said Jaskier, horrified, “that’s awful! Those poor boys…” 

“ _And_ sixteen sheep,” Gerta added, clearly of the opinion that the loss of the sheep was more devastating than the loss of the boys. 

“Well,” said Jaskier, trying to wrangle both the conversation and the struggling chicken towards something more manageable, “you don’t have to worry about her any more. Because Geralt’s taken care of her. Isn't that right, Geralt?” 

Geralt nodded. “Hmm.” 

“You _killed_ her?” 

“I did.” 

“Gosh.” 

There was a long pause. 

“So, then,” said Jaskier, “how about we get this chicken ba--” 

“How’d you kill her?” 

Geralt glanced at Jaskier. Jaskier shrugged. Geralt, for all his grumpy stoicism, had proven himself to be surprisingly good with children. It was because he was honest, Jaskier supposed: he didn’t talk down to them or try to mince his words. Children appreciated a good horror story, especially gorey ones, and Geralt was a walking anthology. 

But Geralt was also busy, and - Jaskier noted, trying not to panic - injured. 

“How about we go and speak to your alderman,” he said, “and get Geralt here cleaned up, and we’ll tell you later, hmm? Fighting monsters is tiring work, you know..” 

Gerta eyed him suspiciously. “Promise?” 

“I promise.” 

She folded her arms across her chest. “Alright,” she said. 

“So…” Jaskier gestured to the chicken tucked under his arm, who’d given up trying to escape. 

“Oh!” Gerta reached forward and after a brief flurry of feathers the chicken was held tightly between her arms. 

“Is that all of them?” Jaskier said, as the trio began the walk back towards the village. 

Gerta nodded, but she was no longer interested in the chickens. “You’ll really come back?” 

“If we’ve time, yes.” 

Geralt walked ahead, aiming for the alderman’s house, while Jaskier walked with Gerta back to her little stone cottage. After depositing both child and chicken back in the garden and grabbing his stained doublet, Jaskier jogged to catch up with Geralt. 

“How did it go?” He panted, “Really, though? Was it okay?” 

“It was fine. She was very… enthusiastic.” Geralt’s eyes glanced down to the cut on his cheek. “But could have been worse.” 

The alderman, a small, nervous man who took the bag and held it away from himself at arm’s length, thanked Geralt profusely for killing the monster as Jaskier leant in the doorway. 

“What was she?” The alderman asked, gently depositing the bag on the floor. 

“Noonwraith,” said Geralt, “A strong one, too. I found a few pieces of jewellery up in the copse at the top of the hill; rings, a locket.” He paused. “Who was killed up there? Before the wraith appeared? A young woman, soon to be wed?” 

The alderman paled. “It was… it was so long ago. She was poor, and he was rich, and his family, they said…” 

Geralt raised a hand, and the man fell silent. “It’s safe up there, now. I burnt the jewellery. She won’t come back.” 

“Thank you, master witcher. I, ah… your pay, o’ course…” 

He passed Geralt a bag of coins. To Jaskier’s eyes, it looked heavy: perhaps they wouldn’t need to sleep on the ground tonight. 

As they left the alderman’s house, Jaskier was aware of Geralt’s eyes on him. He flushed. 

“What is it?” He said, finally. 

“Nothing,” said Geralt, with a little smirk. “What happened to your doublet?” 

“ _Chickens_ happened.” 

“Oh?” 

“While you were off killing that terrible beasty, I was helping that sweet little girl find her chickens.” 

“I wondered what that was about.” 

“I’ll have you know I’m an accomplished chicken wrangler.” 

“Is that so?” Geralt raised his eyebrows and stood aside as they reached the tavern, indicating that Jaskier should go first. Preening a little, Jaskier walked sauntered through the doorway. “You’ve got chicken shit on your arse.” 

Jaskier span around. “I… what?” He made a valiant attempt to look at his own arse, twirling on the spot. “Fuck’s sake…” 

Geralt made a soft sound that might have been a laugh, walking past Jaskier to get to the bar. Jaskier huffed, annoyed that he’d now need to cover the cost of both the ruined doublet _and_ trousers, when a sudden thought struck him. 

“Hang on,” he said, hurrying forwards to join Geralt at the bar, “How come you’ve been looking at my--” 

“Two pints of ale, please,” said Geralt to the waiting barmaid. “And whatever’s on for lunch.” 

“Right away, sir.” 

Jaskier watched Geralt carefully, out of the corner of his eye. Bloody tricky witcher. His gaze drifted to the cut on Geralt’s cheek. The blood was dried, crusted in little rivulets down his face. Geralt had either forgotten about the injury, or simply didn’t care. 

Finally, the barmaid reappeared with their drinks, and Geralt went to sit, taking the ales with him. Jaskier lingered at the bar. 

“Can I get a bowl of warm water?” He said, as the barmaid walked past. “Just a small one.” 

If she thought his request was unusual, she certainly didn’t show it, and soon he was swinging his legs onto the bench next to Geralt, the bowl held in one hand. 

Geralt looked at it and raised his eyebrows. 

“On a diet?” 

Jaskier snorted. “No,” he said, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a few linen squares, “this is for your face, obviously. Let me look at it…” 

Geralt tried to swat his hand away. “Stop fussing, Jaskier.” 

“I’m not _fussing_. You need to clean that wound. Are noonwraiths toxic, at all? Or are they just filthy? We can’t have your face rotting away, it’ll really ruin the whole handsome-and-brooding thing you’ve got going on.” 

Geralt scowled, but didn’t chastise Jaskier for the underhanded compliment. That was as good as an assent to continue, so Jaskier dipped one of the linen squares in the warm water and proceeded to wipe the blood away from Geralt’s face. 

It was a clean, shallow cut, thankfully. As long as it didn’t get infected, it wouldn’t even leave a scar. 

“Have you got any--” 

“Here.” 

Geralt appeared to have anticipated Jaskier’s request, handing him the little black jar which Jaskier knew contained the tingling ointment he used for these sorts of wounds. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, pulling off the lid and dipping a dry corner of the linen into the viscous goop. He dabbed it lightly across the cut and, when he was satisfied he’d done all he could to prevent Geralt’s face turning toxic and falling off, he returned the little jar to the witcher and tucked the linen back into his bag. 

“There,” Jaskier said, “done.” 

“Hmm.” 

Soon, a serving girl had appeared with food - it was simple enough: bread and meat and potatoes - but it tasted good and after a morning running around in the dirt catching chickens Jaskier would have been glad for anything. 

When they had finished, they rose and made for the door. The village was too small for an inn, but there was a town only a few hours ride away. Geralt wasn’t _saying_ it, of course, but Jaskier could tell that he was also keen to sleep on a real bed for once. 

As they reached the tiny, fenced-off yard attached to the tavern, they found their way blocked. 

Gerta looked up at them, hands on her hips. 

“You was gonna tell me about the ghost,” she said. “You _promised._ ” 

“So I was.” 

She clearly had no intentions of moving. There was a prettily carved bench against the outer wall of the tavern and, with a sigh, Geralt sat. Jaskier followed him, amused at how easily the child had cowed the witcher. 

“What do you want to know?” Geralt asked, leaning down so he was at eye height with the tiny girl. 

“What’d she look like?” Gerta asked, quickly. “At Saovine, our Davey dressed as a ghost, but he weren’t very scary. Ma took the rod to ‘im too, cos he ruined her best sheets.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah, but he wasn’t scary at all, he was just a sheet wiv holes in. Was she scary?” 

Geralt thought for a moment. “Terrifying.” 

“Was she dressed in a sheet like Davey was?” 

“She wasn’t. She looked like a skeleton,” said Geralt, “wearing a long white dress. She had a long, slimy tongue the length of my arm.” 

Jaskier smiled at the description of the noonwraith’s tongue. He’d seen them before, and knew Geralt wasn’t exaggerating, but that was the sort of detail that adults would often skip but children found suitably horrifying. 

Gerta inhaled, impressed. She seemed to have a thought. “Hold on…” she said, then rushed away. 

Geralt peered at Jaskier. He shrugged. A little way away, a gang of variously aged children were gathered around a dead frog, inspecting it. One of them was poking at it with a stick. Gerta headed towards them, determined. Clearly this story was so good that it needed to be shared. 

“Oi.” She kicked at the ground, covering the frog in dust. 

The other children looked up. “What?” 

“That witcher feller…” she pointed to where Geralt and Jaskier were sat, “is gonna tell me how he killed a skellington.” 

She appeared to have piqued their interests. A skeleton was a great deal more interesting than a dead frog. The eldest child, and designated frog-poker, stood up. 

“‘Ow can ‘e kill a skellington,” he said, wiping his nose on his sleeve with a sniff, “when a skellington’s already dead?” 

Gerta shrugged. “‘E’s a witcher. That’s ‘is job. Killin’ stuff what’s already dead.” 

The frog-poker considered this. “Anyone can _say_ they’se killed a skellington, though. ‘As he got proof?” 

Gerta turned to Geralt, expectantly. “‘E ‘ad a bag of bones earlier. Where’s the bones gone?” 

“I sold them to your alderman.” 

Frog-Poker frowned. “What’s Boris want with a load of dead skellingtons?” 

“It wasn’t _really_ a skellington,” Gerta said, clearly running out of patience. “It was that ghosty lady up on the hill, that all the grown-ups was talking about.” 

“The one who killed them sixteen sheep?” 

“ _And_ the farmer's lads.” 

“...Cor.” 

Frog-Poker appeared to come to a decision. He wandered over, standing in front of Geralt like a king might stand before a servant. 

“You killed the ghost lady?” He said, “the one who ate all them sheep?” 

“I did.” 

He seemed impressed. Frog-Poker sat himself down in front of Geralt and the other children, clearly used to following him around, abandoned the frog to copy him. 

“Go on then, witcher,” he said, “I wanna hear about you killin’ this ghosty thing.” 

Geralt glanced at Jaskier. 

“Oh yes,” said Jaskier, “Do tell us about the ghosty thing Geralt, please?” 

Geralt sighed. “Firstly,” he said, “it was a _noonwraith_ , not a ghost…” 

The children watched him with awe-struck faces as he told the story. Jaskier knew a little about noonwraiths - knew that they were typically the spirits of women killed before their wedding day - but Geralt wisely skipped that fact, instead focusing on the wretchedness of its wailing, the rattling of its bones and the slobbering of its disgusting tongue. He told them how it had come for him, how it had been invulnerable to his swords. Geralt described in terrible detail the way it had created mirror images of itself, and how he’d cut them all down. 

Geralt had even described the best way to destroy the wraith - by penning it in with a witcher sign - and after no small amount of cajoling from the small crowd of children he’d amassed had demonstrated it to them, trapping Jaskier in a shimmering purple ring. The purple magic had made Jaskier’s hair stand on end, prickling his skin, and he’d caught Geralt watching him with a curious look on his face before the sign had faded away. 

When Geralt’s story was finished, Jaskier added a reassuring message: should they ever see something like the noonwraith again, they should post a notice for a witcher, and Geralt or one of his brothers would soon see the creature off. It was a good moral to the story, one that would, with any luck, do a little more to improve the reputation of witchers. Geralt had smiled at that, and Jaskier felt a hot little surge of pride. 

They’d lingered in the village too long, and the sun was sliding across the sky. They’d need to head on soon, or the inn in the next town over would be full by the time they got there. Apologising profusely, Jaskier managed to extract them from the gang of children. Gerta appeared in front of him, frowning. 

“I jus’... wanted to say thank you. For gettin’ my chickens back.” 

“Think nothing of it!” Jaskier said, bending down, “It was an afternoon well spent. Just promise me you’ll make sure you shut the gate next time, alright?” 

She grinned. “Alright.” 

“Promise? I don’t want to come back here and hear that all your chickens have gone again.” 

“Promise.” She twisted her foot in the dirt, thinking. “Jaskier?” 

“Yes?” 

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright? Not ‘avin’ a house anna bed anna fireplace?” 

Jaskier looked up at Geralt, who was watching their conversation with interest. Something about the way he was watching Jaskier, his head tilted to one side, the smallest smile on his face, made Jaskier’s stomach squeeze and his heart beat just a _fraction_ faster. He grinned, then turned back to the little girl. 

“I’m quite sure, Gerta.” 


End file.
